


The Mad Mouse

by Yavannie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Gen, Headcanon, Headcanon TWOW Prologue, Minor Character Death, POV Minor Character, Series Spoilers, Shocking Rate of Character Deaths to Words Written, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa leaves the Vale. Fulfilling my intense need to see this scenario as the prologue in The Winds of Winter.</p>
<p>This was intended as the first chapter in a SanSan fic, but since it's been on my hard drive for a few months now, I'll just go ahead and post it as a oneshot. Not beta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mad Mouse

 

** The Mad Mouse **

The little lord was dead. The Mad Mouse had seen it himself; the spindly little body limp and the head lolling to one side, the half-dried, pink froth at the corner of his mouth, those watery eyes all rolled back into his skull. His nails had been all chipped and torn, perhaps from clawing at something. It had been Morgarth who woke him, his overripe plum of a nose swimming into view as the Mouse jerked from an uneasy dream. 

 

“The little lord is dead,” he had said, his voice worried and tired, before he hurried off towards the Maester’s chambers. 

 

Morgarth had hoped to stay the winter within the Gates of the Moon, he knew, feet propped up on a stool by the hearth, a tankard of ale in hand and a pig on the spit. The Vale was bountiful, but the Mad Mouse had his mind set on a bigger prize. Morgarth had grown soft during his months in the keep, and he had paid with his life at the Bloody Gate. _Good. Only the pretty boy and the mockingbird left_. The lord Littlefinger with his honeyed tongue and his soft hands was somewhere ahead of him, keeping close to the girl.

 

He’d had his suspicions from the moment he set eyes on her. Oh yes, she’d been all giggles and smiles, playing the role of the bastard better than most mummers he’d had the misfortune to encounter, but then he’d seen the snow melting in her hair, and the fur of her cloak stained dark, and then he’d known for sure. 

 

The little lord was dead, but luck was smiling down on the Mad Mouse where he rode, grinning to himself in spite of the snow that blew so wildly about his face that he couldn’t see more than a foot ahead, trusting in his horse to follow his kin.

 

In amongst the trees the wind was not so relentless, and he could make out the girl, and it seemed then that her winter cloak and her warm dress were not grey and woollen at all, but spun of gold, and it was all he could do not to throw his head back and laugh.

 

Littlefinger called a halt as the sun was starting to set. The girl was tired and nearly fell as she dismounted. The Mad Mouse drew a deep breath, tasting the air. Tonight was as good a night as any, really. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and as he brushed the pommel with his glove, flakes of crusted blood fell from it and onto the snow at his feet.

 

“Good sers Shadrich and Byron,” said Littlefinger in a voice that suggested the comforts of a castle rather than a winter night in the wild, “we need kindling for a fire.”

 

“My lord,” said Byron. “Finding anything dry is going to be near enough impossible–”

 

“Certainly, my lord,” said the Mad Mouse, then tugged at Ser Byron’s arm. “Come, ser, four eyes see more than two.”

 

Reluctantly, Byron followed, and the Mad Mouse did not fail to see that his eyes lingered at the girl, perhaps hoping for some sign that his affections were returned. _He doesn’t know what we’ve got_. The youngling would never share, he knew, and grinned at the thought.

 

“Where do you think we are headed?” asked Byron once they were out of earshot, picking their way through the deep drifts, brushing aside low branches, sending powdery snow flying like a fine, icy mist on the wind.

 

“Oh, not very far.”

 

The young man stopped, turned to him and frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean precisely that,” said the Mad Mouse, then drew his sword. Byron’s eyes went wide and his hand to his own hilt, but it was too late. 

The droplets that landed on his face were warm, and when he rubbed his cheeks with snow it turned to water in an instant, his own blood running hot under his skin.

 

He was nearly at the camp when he heard the girl scream, and he ran a few steps before checking himself to stop and listen. Hesitating, he turned his sword in his hands. The voices he could hear did not sound like clansmen, and there were no more shouts. Slowly, he stole forward until he could glimpse the clearing. Crouching low amongst the trees he watched the scene from a distance. There was the girl, unharmed and on her feet. There was Lord Littlefinger, a lifeless figure on the ground, the snow around him stained red. Over him towered a warrior, a monstrous big thing, hot breath clouding the air, blood dripping from the sword in his hand. The Mad Mouse chewed his lip, weighing his odds. As the warrior turned around, facing him, he frowned. There was something familiar about his features, although the hideous scar across his cheek was fresh. Then his face broke into a grin of recognition. 

 

He chuckled quietly and reached down for his scabbard. 

 

The sudden blow against his back was more unexpected than forceful, but it still knocked the air out of him and sent his sword flying. Scrambling around, he found himself looking up at a scrawny boy with a serious face and a blade pointed at his throat.

 

“My lady. Ser. Here is the last of them.”

 

He could hear footsteps approaching, and then the warrior was looking down on him as well.

 

“Ser Shadrich,” she said, and turned away, a look of disgust in her eyes. “What of the other?”

 

“Dead, a ways back, ser. By his hands, ser.”

 

Now the girl came as well, and she looked somehow different. No less pretty, though. “I see you found your sister at last,” he said to the Maid of Tarth. “The likeness is less than striking.”

 

The boy made a muffled noise, and thrust the sword a bit closer to his throat, forcing him to press his head down into the snow.

“Enough, Podrick,” said Brienne, and the boy backed off, allowing the Mad Mouse to get to his feet. 

 

He eyed his sword where it lay, and the girl, following his gaze, moved to pick it up clumsily. “What do we do with him?” she asked.

 

Brienne’s gaze flickered to the girl, and then back to him. “Do I have your word you won’t follow us when we go?”

 

“My lady!” the boy said. “Ser! He was going to kill you!”

 

“He was going to try,” said Brienne. “Well, Shadrich. Do I have your word?”

 

The Mad Mouse looked at Sansa Stark, her eyes as dark as the dusk falling around them, his chance at turning his misfortune slipping away with the failing light. He looked at Brinne of Tarth, at the sword in her hands, the dark ripples beneath the blood making the steel look almost alive. He shock his head and laughed. “No,” he said. 

 

The warrior maid drew herself up, a strange look of pity and anger mingled in her bright blue eyes. “Podrick, give Ser Shadrich his sword.”


End file.
